


Rectitude and other possible things

by StAnni



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Boys In Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 04:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18439121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: Eliot is acutely aware of the fact that he has not given Quentin a real answer and he is also acutely aware of the fact that it is the first time in more than five months that they are alone together, and that Quentin, is not only shirtless, but wet, and desperate and waiting for him to say yes.





	Rectitude and other possible things

Quentin is soaked through as he stands in front of Eliot’s apartment, the pool at his feet soaking into the hallway carpet.   
“I know it can’t just go back to how it was before, El.” Quentin reasons, right away, eyes earnest and his knuckles white as he pulls his hands through his hair “I need another shot. Please”

Of course Eliot invites him in, it’s Quentin for fuck’s sake, shivering and pleading, any amount of anger, irritation and even murderous rage is eliminated by a Quentin, eyes big and sad, standing in a doorway. It’s zero-sum.

Eliot hands him a towel as Quentin takes off his shirt, heavy with rain – because. Of course. Of course Quentin will just take off his shirt. 

Eliot is acutely aware of the fact that he has not given Quentin a real answer and he is also acutely aware of the fact that it is the first time in more than five months that they are alone together, and that Quentin, is not only shirtless, but wet, and desperate and waiting for him to say yes.

Eliot tries to remain collected – the simultaneous urges to punch Quentin in the nuts and to kiss him, fighting it out in his mind. 

“Where are you staying, Q?”   
And Quentin shakes his head, impatient “Fuck that, what do you say?”

And at that Eliot does make the election, not to punch Quentin, but to kiss him.

The kiss, three hours later, was a mistake. 

Quentin, on his stomach, his clothes on a wet pile on the floor – sleeping the sleep of the wicked – leaves Eliot wide awake, pensive, rolling the last two years over in his heart. 

He still hasn’t given Eliot a yes or a no, though he supposes, Eliot may take their frenzied fuck as a yes. Which is problematic, twenty twenty. 

Eliot wakes Quentin up by tapping the smooth skin of his naked shoulder. Quentin, groggy, looks up at him with a frown. “Why… are you awake?”

“You’re going to have to get a hotel, Quentin. I’m not ready to play house with you.” It comes out rushed and blunt but where they are is rushed and blunt. 

Quentin rubs his face and sighs “Yeah, no, I know.” and then tiredly sits up fishes a cigarette from the box in his jacket. 

Eliot has always hated smoking, has always pestered Quentin about quitting – right now if feels like a wave of relief – the normalcy of it, the familiarity of the cigarette perched lazily on Quentin’s lower lip. Fuck, he’s a goner. Still. Quentin could probably murder every single person he ever could care about and Eliot would still let him back in. Like, immediately. 

But he didn’t murder anyone. He didn’t commit unforgivable atrocities. Like Eliot has. Quentin just left. Like Eliot knew he would, through the door in his heart that Eliot always leaves open, always – just in case Quentin comes back.

Telling him to get a hotel room feels less like a win when he can feel his dick twitch at Quentin exhaling a plume of smoke. Fuck if Quentin isn’t just the most beautiful abandoner in the world at that moment. Eliot has to look away to focus on what Arthur is saying. 

“I just want a start, El.”

There has been two “starts” already after everything went done, fucked-up and then finally returned to whatever is as close to normal as it was before. The first start, was a false start and ended up with Eliot, eventually, spending two weeks in Italy on his own after Quentin never showed up at the airport. The second go of it, later, actually fooled him into thinking things were finally coming up Queliot. They moved in together, they fucked every waking moment of every day – or at least it seemed like it. They bickered, they fought – they laughed, they fucked some more.  
And the way it ended, the subtlety of it, was what really fucking hurt. It possibly ended with Quentin leaving to see his mother, or possibly when he signed up for a research trip to Cuba, or possibly when he left for a week to help Julia get Penny to a rehab center, or possibly going on whatever with whoever. Up until a point where Eliot was just staring at his phone, like a fucking idiot when Quentin said “Maybe it’s just…it’s not the best time for us.”

And new Quentin is sitting up next to him in bed, the covers crumpled up just to the middle of his thighs – his cock, soft and beautiful, just there – enticing – fucking everything up again from the start. “You’ve had starts” Eliot finally says, because honestly, it’s not a secret.

And Quentin is quiet, in that Quentin way – flicking ash from his cigarette, his shoulder strong and neck bent just so, just in a way that makes it almost impossible not to pull him in for a dusky kiss – stroke his cock to hardness – make him get on all fours.  
Eliot must be a fucking saint.

“Look, I know…” And he pauses to think, and because his eyes are so perfectly sincere – gazing out into the distance – as if the answer to all his problems is somewhere behind a closet full of bespoke dress clothes – Eliot has to literally look away from him, has to literally force himself to wait it out. “…I know it’s not going to be the way it was before, I mean, before before, not all the shitty in between tries, I know that…” 

His eyes are sad and the color of dirty oceans brimming with mermaids and sharks and dragons.

“Nothing works without you, El.” 

He means it. Eliot knows he means it. Eliot feels he means it – his heart is shoving and pushing against his chest, giving the finger, threatening to explode if it’s not let out right the fuck now. 

But he always means these things.  
He’s Quentin.

“Nothing works without you, either.”

So, why the fuck not?


End file.
